


Mourning Star

by madrabbitgirl



Series: Bringer of Light Variations [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Demon/Human Relationships, F/M, Falling In Love, Gratuitous abuse of italics, John "The Morningstar" Watson, John "Three Continents" Watson, John Watson Whump, John Watson is Lucifer, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Reichenbach Feels, Reincarnation, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:34:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26330467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: John's Fall from Grace left him bitter and disconnected from both Heaven and Hell. His only joy was a bit of temptation here and there and mocking his former brother for falling in love with an angel, of all things. However, the instant John met Sherlock Holmes, he understood why Crowley was willing to protect the angel at all costs.He wasn't prepared for Sherlock to die, or to have to relive meeting him over and over.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), John Watson/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Bringer of Light Variations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913281
Comments: 6
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadMags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMags/gifts).



> * ~~LITERALLY EDITING THE SECOND PART NOW, this is a completed work, I'm just not finished editing the second chapter.~~ Guess who lied and it's three parts now? I swear, it's secretly a completed work.
> 
> * Sherlock is my usual fandom but everyone left such nice suggestions on Bringer of Light that I had to try an alternate version. Both are stand alone fics and can be read separately even though I lumped them into a 'series'. 
> 
> * Not brit-picked, but I'm trying my best. What's that charming tag you all use? "No Beta, we fall like Crowley"?

Some angels claimed that they had not ‘meant to Fall’ or something about ‘sauntering vaguely downwards’, but when it came to John, he’d always known what he was doing. Called by another name back in those days, he’d known his place and the part he was meant to play. It was part of the Plan, wasn’t it? He remembered holding the Plan in his hands, the glow of the morning light that rolled off his skin illuminating the text, reading what She’d decreed. He skimmed over her back-up Plans, too. It was a very interesting idea, really, but there were parts of it that were, of course, beyond his comprehension and She was refusing to tell him anything. 

That’s when the first evil thought took root in his heart.

The first _doubt_.

The poisonous infection of it latched onto his soul, slowly pumping further and further into his pneuma. Each echo of that first wondering only begat more and more questions. The darkness began to consume his every thought. By the time he’d realized the process had started, he’d already shown Raphael the Plan, encouraging him to read most of it. Raphael - well, he was good at talking. His starfire fueled nature lit up and leapt forward, blazing with more questions. Suddenly John had other angels behind him, an army of them, pressing, begging, asking why things had to be the way they were. 

John didn’t have the answers. 

The peace he’d felt at knowing his future and the love he’d felt at being Her chosen one- the one allowed to _know_ \- rattled and twisted, turning into a wretched, monstrous thing. By the time the War started, he was more than ready to lead the others into battle.

Nothing could prepare him for the Loss. Not even knowing about it ahead of time.

He had no clear guides as to what he was supposed to do after. As far as he’d read, this was the end of his part in things. Everything else he tried to recall from Her plans had gone sort of fuzzy, getting fuzzier the harder he tried to remember. There had been vague talks of an Apocalypse, but that was ages from the War and the Fall. There were no real plans for this exact moment. 

He frowned, looking down at himself from the banks of a stinking pit. He hadn’t changed? He couldn’t see anything different about himself, at least from the outside. There was supposed to be pain, but he’d lived so long with the tenebrosity brewing inside him that he barely even registered the last tiny bit of Grace leaving him. He looked around. It was terribly hard to see, but others appeared to be writhing in agony, splashing into pools of sulfur and oceans of despair. There were so many screams and such crying as John had never heard before. Liquid dripped from a hole in his chest, not quite where a human heart would be, a physical manifestation of where his angelic nature had been torn out of him. In the future, he would claim it was a gunshot wound. 

He could see Raphael a few feet away, always silly, always sort of clumsy, really, with his arms windmilling at his sides as he tripped and toppled into the endless suffering. 

Two archangels Fallen. John shook his head. What a waste. “Idiot.” 

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be in Heaven, either, not with how She was dictating it. A new power was building inside of him and he didn’t want to be responsible for whatever came next. He pressed his lips together and weighed his options, dusting himself off. Well. If he didn’t want to be in Heaven or Hell, and he didn’t feel like soaring off into space, there was only one more option. 

Leaving his former brother to flounder with the other demons in the depths, John started his climb to Earth.

***

Things got boring after a while, he had to admit. There was so much time to fill, and without any particular allegiance to one side or another, John just drifted along. Sometimes, if the mood struck him, he might do the odd good deed or two. Raphael wasn’t the only archangel that could heal things, and John quite liked the way it felt to knit bones or seal wounds. Sort of like a craft project, really, making the little humans feel better. Of course, he didn’t hate making them feel worse, either. War was a comfortable jacket that he wore with pleasure. The familiarity of it was soothing to him. Over time, it occurred to him that no one was ever truly right or wrong. No one was ever really good. There was always sin on every side and who represented Heaven and who represented Hell was fairly arbitrary.

Seduction, though. Seduction was new and he indulged whenever possible.

No one could resist him, even if they wanted to. A quick touch laced with a gentle ‘miracle’, the spread of a suggestive heat across the skin of any human, and John could have them in his arms and begging for it without question. It was easy, but also somehow delightful. There hadn’t been much of this in Heaven, that was certain. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” a voice hissed in the shadows. John lifted his lips from the soft flesh of the nameless woman in his arms. What did he care for names when they would be dust soon enough? He rolled his eyes so hard he thought they’d sprain. Her small body slumped against him, melted, dizzy from his poisonous kisses.

“Little snake,” John said. Putting on a show, he decided to suck another lazy mark at her shoulder before turning his head to glimpse the outline of his lanky, taller brother. The Fall had certainly done a number on him, changing the sweet and curious Raphael into something else, but the lines of his face were familiar enough. Vibrant serpent’s eyes were judging him almost as much as She once had. “I might ask you the same question.” 

“Not sucking face with human women!” Not Raphael stated, glaring. John’s lip twisted up in a half-smile.

“I wasn’t sucking her face, I was sucking her neck,” John pointed out. “Have you tried it? It’s not a bad way to pass the time.” Sensing that Not Raphael wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, John shifted his body so the woman’s plump form was cradled against his but with her back to his chest. One arm was firmly wrapped around her waist, caressing the curve where her hips were, and the other started to snake upwards. “Very nice way to pass the time, actually. Come on, oh Great Tempter of Eden. Give it a shot.” 

Not Raphael sputtered, indignant but also protesting just a bit too much, which caused John to grow even more smug. “Who says I haven’t? But a low-level demon is different from the King of All Fucking Hell.” 

John’s smile froze in place, although he didn’t stop his exploration of the woman’s body. His nose drifted along her jaw towards her ear as another miracle kept her primed and ready for him. “Don’t call me that. I’m not king of any bloody thing.” 

“What are you, then?” Not Raphael asked, letting out another hiss as he watched. John smirked, making sure to keep meeting those yellow eyes. 

“Me? I’m nothing at all,” he murmured, lips brushing her skin. He then shoved her, fast and hard, towards the creature in the shadows. “Here, have one on me. I’m not in the mood after all.” 

Without caring what the consequences were, he walked away, never looking back.

***

John wandered for a while. Humanity was boring and fragile, and very violent which was actually starting to grate on him a little. War could be fun but… maybe it meant something that he was so tired of the violence. For now, anyway.

Wandering, though, was calming. There were so many beautiful things in the world that he hadn’t considered in his initial rebellion. Maybe She hadn’t meant for him to consider them. He enjoyed animals. He hadn’t much cared for them at their creation, but seeing them in their natural environments, it was sort of… well, they had a magical quality to them, didn’t they? He loved landscapes and how it was always shifting and changing. The wide plains of grass that were so like the ocean but with plant life undulating in the air rather than the water. The humid jungles and remote islands. The oceans themselves with their murky, secretive depths that concealed even more creatures for humans to discover. Those things he could understand the beauty of. How he’d ever been jealous of all of this made him feel slightly, well, ashamed, really. 

But he still wasn’t overly fond of humans, no matter how good they were at sex. (He had to hand it to them, they were also very, very inventive when it came to sex.) 

He knew that She was still out there, still waiting for the grand or great or something Plan of Hers to play out and that it somehow included _them_. So, after a few eons of staying mostly to himself (except for the odd quick tumble because, let’s face it, that part was pretty excellent), he decided to learn more about the hairless apes his Mother had shunned all her angels for. He decided he didn’t dislike food, actually, which he had to thank them for. Cooking was one of their better discoveries and regular meals were a nice way to break up the endless amounts of time that he was stuck with. There were customs and traditions often associated with eating, so he was able to observe the humans and learn more about their ways. He learned about medicine and repairing human flesh without the use of miracles and that was something vaguely entertaining as well, but it also reminded him too much of his petulant little snake brother. John enjoyed knowing how to use his hands rather than his blessed powers.

He still didn’t understand what made them, Her humans, so great.

The question that had cost him a home remained unanswered.

When he’d Fallen, he’d received a few interesting parting gifts from Heaven, one of which was an almost God-like sense of power and manipulation that allowed him to stalk among all creatures great and small virtually undetected. He could hide his supernatural essence from other beings and just exist as plain, ordinary John. He wasn’t as powerful as Her, naturally, but he did come rather close, if he was being honest. Maybe it was Her way of apologizing for forcing him to be her enemy. Maybe She just wanted a fairer fight the next time they met. Whatever Her reasoning, John was not without a unique set of talents that set him apart from literally anyone else. 

This gift was certainly handy for observing a certain ex-archangel-turned-demon as he orbited around a sunny little angel, a planet continuously searching for it’s sun. Not Raphael’s hobbies were interesting, indeed.

The serpent stashed the angel, who was looking tired and worn, in some little hovel before stalking through the market. John grinned as he watched random foodstuffs disappear from stalls while the demon sauntered through wearing an expression that was too casual to be up to nothing. He followed behind for a while, wondering why the creature knew so much about the angel’s preferred beverages and snacks. John frowned.

“What are you doing?” he wondered aloud, letting his defenses drop so the demon would sense his power. He delighted in the effect it had- the demon, startled, nearly jumped out of his skin and lost a few of his stolen goods for it. John picked up a dusty date off the ground, sniffing it before tossing it back down. “Why are you being so…” John made a vague hand gesture, “human?” 

“None of your business,” the demon snapped, glowering from behind his tinted lenses. John smirked. “How do you do that? I didn’t even-” 

“Is it a temptation, then?” John asked, ignoring the question. He started to circle, looking the demon up and down, and then let his gaze wander in the direction where he knew the angel had been stashed. Not Raphael hissed, causing John to look back at him. “Are you trying to tempt an angel? To Hell?”

“ShutupShutupShutup! Lower your voice,” the demon said. “It’s nothing of the kind. As if you’d understand.” 

“I’m merely taking an interest. You could try me. Maybe I’d get it,” John said, shrugging. He clasped his hands behind his back, lips pressed together as his brows raised expectantly. The demon glowered, but then the corners of his mouth- well, they wrinkled in the way that suggested pain when humans did it. 

“Raphael-”

“That’s not my name!” the demon snapped. 

“Fine, whatever you like. Just tell me. I could compel you to. Weren’t you just saying I was your overlord or something like?” John asked, tilting his head to the side curiously. The demon gnashed his teeth in frustration. 

“You’ve not been down there in ages. Besides, that was centuries ago! What do you mean, ‘just’? Why are you here? Go away, shoo!” the demon snapped. John almost chuckled at the ridiculous creature and then he tried again, blue eyes seemingly wide and innocent. He’d never know it, but he only managed to soften the demon’s resolve not to talk to him by having eyes so similar to those of his beloved angel. The demon huffed. And then huffed again. 

Very gently, John prompted, “What are you doing with the angel?” 

“He’s- he’s having a crisis,” the demon admitted, face falling at the sentence. He tried to keep appearing nonchalant, but he was mucking it up royally. John watched the skittering of minute twitches and quirks that gave away the former archangel’s real emotions as his facade cracked under pressure. “He- He was questioning his faith.” 

“And you’re, what, making a friend? Demons don’t really have friends,” John pointed out. 

“Shut up!” the demon said, punctuating his command with a hiss. Then, he seemed to deflate. The little cobra putting away his metaphorical hood and drooping back. “He might Fall. If no one is there to, y’know, take care of him. He could Fall. When I found him, he was railing at Her like anything. What if someone hears him?” 

Interesting, John thought with a frown. He tipped his head to the side again. “What do you care if some weak Principality loses his faith over some silly little town full of dead humans?” 

“He’ssss not weak!” the demon hissed. He started to pace away, but then stalked back, his entire aura seething. “He’s perfect. The bessssst angel she ever made, including _you_! He doesn’t- He should never- The ones She asks for, the punishmentsss, he never questions those. This was senseless destruction by nature. He didn’t underssstand. It’s nothing he should Fall over.” 

That explanation didn’t quite make sense to John. Obviously, something done by Nature was still through Her, and it had to be a punishment for _something_ because that’s what She _did_. “That explains nothing really.” 

“I don’t really get it, either. But he’s upset,” the demon shrugged, refusing to meet John’s gaze. “It was a waste, but so were all the others. ‘Spose this wasn’t like the others. There wasn’t some grand lesson to be learned with it.” 

“I dunno, don’t build your town next to a volcano is a good lesson, I should think.” John watched the uncomfortable twitching and movements of the demon, who’d snatched a few more fruits for his satchel. Another smirk grew on his lips, and when he spoke, his voice tipped up in humor. “Are you in love, then?” 

The demon didn’t answer. He glared. 

“With an _angel_? Oh, dear. What if Hell should find out?” John wondered. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, the first time he’d really done so since he’d been cast out of Heaven. “Wonderful. It’ll all go up in flames, you know.” 

“It won’t. He won’t. No one is going to find out,” the demon threatened, puffing up angrily. He snatched one more fruit for good measure before stalking away, done with the conversation. 

“Oh? What would you do to stop me, little snake? Hiss even louder?” John teased. “I’ll enjoy this when it explodes. You always keep it so interesting.” 

For giggles, and just to prove to himself that he really could lurk about with the demon unaware of his presence, John brought his shield back up and followed as the demon led a twisting, turning route back to the angel. He lingered by a window, pressed against the wall of the dwelling, the sun setting for the day. It was easier to hide in the shadows. 

“Angel? I brought you something to eat. Might help you, you know. Feel better. Or something.” 

“Oh, my dear, Crowley, _thank you_.” 

John nodded to himself. Crowley. Well, well, well, wasn’t this just _interesting_.

***

The first time John saw Sherlock Holmes, he understood in one single breath what Crowley meant when he said that the Angel should never Fall.

Crazy thing about humans- they’re really easy to fool. It’s not their fault, they’re up against a supernaturally old creature who had gone so far as to challenge God, but all the same, with his level of practice, they were pretty easy to trick. Michael Stamford never stood a chance. As John walked along the busy streets of London, blending into the crowds, he’d heard the man calling out for someone in his general direction and naturally, John had turned. The doughy little man forced his hand into John’s and shook it in a most friendly manner. 

“John Watson! I can’t believe it’s you. Good to see you, old boy. Whatever have you been doing with yourself?” Stamford asked, pumping John’s hand enthusiastically. 

John had never seen this man before in his entire existence but it seemed like a lark, so he played along. A few simple manipulations and he knew that Stamford and this Watson person had studied together at Barts, he was meant to be playing a doctor and that he’d left for the army. Alright, that sounded fun. Using his own wounds as a basis for the game, John described being shot at and becoming infected, getting sent home from the war with his tail between his legs. 

He wasn’t bitter about the War. No, not at all. Not after all these centuries.

“Poor devil!” Stamford said, and John nodded, not missing how entirely ironic the statement was. Poor Devil, indeed. “So what are you up to now?” 

John shrugged. “Passing through London. I’m trying to work out if it’s possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable rate.” 

That was a thing humans were concerned with, yes? Rent?

Stamford’s funny little smile and breathy admittance that John hadn’t been the first person that day to mention such a thing to him was how John found himself calmly touring the stinking, foetid morgue of Bart’s, searching for a potential flatmate. He was not expecting Holmes to take his breath away. 

With one gaze of his piercing, intelligent eyes, Sherlock Holmes began a monologue of deductions that wrapped everything John was pretending to be up with a pretty little bow and presented it to them on a silver platter. None of it was correct, of course, with regards to who John actually was, but it was exactly as he had told Stamford. 

“Brilliant,” John whispered, intrigued and delighted. He was also curious as to why the man was whipping a corpse but that seemed like a second-meeting type question. Manners were always shifting, though, so who was really to say what the proper Victorian etiquette was for asking a man why he was beating a dead body. 

In all the years since the Fall, John hadn’t considered playing human and yet here he was, living with one of the most irritating, most fascinating humans he’d ever met. He was more than happy to take the role of bumbling companion if it meant he was allowed to be close, to observe and learn about Holmes. The man was as alien to humanity as John was. 

It was… startling. In oh-so-many ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please consider reading some of my other works.
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes sat in his chair opposite John, staring at him with those strange pale eyes that John had grown to adore, his hands steepled in front of him as though he were in prayer. 

“Watson, it occurs to me that now might be a good opportunity to satisfy my curiosity on a particular subject of which I’ve given a great deal of thought,” his low, calming voice said. John looked up from the novel he held, eyebrows raised expectantly. It was true, there was nothing on at the moment. No imperative cases were looming, and it wasn’t a good night for going out. The fog was thick and heavy, and Mrs. Hudson had prepared a delightful meal for them, which they’d enjoyed before deciding to rest in their chairs for the evening. 

“Certainly, Holmes. Ask away,” John said, letting his lips twitch with a hint of a smile. He could feel the mustache he’d grown tickling the corner of his mouth and he made a mental note to ask Holmes if he wanted to visit the barber tomorrow. That always seemed like a nice treat for both of them, and John loved any excuse to spend more time with the man. 

“You might not enjoy this line of inquiry,” Holmes teased, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes bright. John marked his page and closed the novel, sitting it on the side table so he might also lean forward. 

“Holmes, you’re my friend. I couldn’t be offended by anything you ask.” John regretted his choice of words the moment they left his lips. “Alright, I might be offended, but I’d certainly never deny you anything, old boy. I’d be over it soon enough.” 

Holmes scooted a little closer to the edge of his seat, no doubt observing every minute facial expression John made. When he spoke, his voice was low and charming. “Why did you pretend to know Stamford in order to meet me?” 

John sputtered. He was not expecting _this_ particular question. “Holmes! Whatever do you-” 

“Don’t toy with me, Watson, you know my methods by now. We’ve shared these rooms for almost a year and I’ve often wondered what your motive could have been for leading poor Stamford along. I warned you,” Holmes said, grinning with a single eyebrow arched in superiority, “that you might not like this line of questioning.” 

John weighed his options, lips pressing together, eyebrows raised, which wrinkled his forehead. Then, his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he made his choice. “What if I can’t tell you?” 

“Are we not friends? The type of friends that could, I would presume, tell each other anything?” Holmes suggested. John nodded, considering his words. 

“Well, as much as I should like to tell you it was some grand or nefarious reason, Holmes, it was simple curiosity. My name actually is John Watson and Stamford mistook me for someone he knew. I played along, as a joke, but when he mentioned someone who also needed a flatmate, well, the rest is history. You know I’d never do anything to cause you harm, surely,” John said, trying to lie as little as possible while continuing the facade. He considered meddling, using his powers to make Holmes believe whatever he wanted, but that seemed like cheating. He genuinely cared for this man and he wanted… 

John shifted uncomfortably. He wanted Sherlock to care for him, too. Without the tricks and temptations. 

“Ah. So that was it,” Holmes said, and he shifted forwards once more, inching ever closer. One of those chemical-calloused hands reached out and lingered on John’s knee, tapping lightly. Then, gripping slightly harder as Sherlock observed something else in John’s expression. “Rather, that was how you came to find me. Now, as to why you’ve stayed.” 

John let a small, sheepish grin play on his lips. He covered Holmes’ hand with one of his own. “Surely, Holmes, that is an easy deduction.” 

Sherlock watched John’s eyes for any hint of a rejection as he moved even further forward. Soon, he knelt between John’s legs, gazing up at him, still searching for a sign that this wasn’t the correct conclusion. It was. On his knees, with John sitting in his chair, the height difference between them wasn’t so great and John leaned forward to capture Sherlock’s lips against his in a fevered kiss. When he pulled back, Sherlock’s eyes had fluttered closed, but were opening once again to stare at John. 

“Correct deduction?” John asked in a soft, gentle voice, letting his free hand cup Sherlock’s jawline. 

“Correct deduction, indeed,” Sherlock agreed, pursuing John’s mouth once more with his own. For all that John had been kissed throughout the ages, for all that he’d tempted, this one felt like the first real kiss he’d ever had. 

Unfortunately, neither of them could predict the future or foresee the appearance of a demon-touched menace known as Professor James Moriarty.

***

He couldn’t find Crowley anywhere. John was always pretty good at sensing the demon in London, but something sleepy washed over him any time he searched for him, leaving only one other supernatural entity to complain to. John pushed open the door to the book shop and stepped inside.

His essence, his _presence_ , was hidden beneath the carefully cultivated facade of Doctor Watson. The Watson that Holmes had so dearly loved and treasured. John gritted his teeth, refusing to shed another tear over the loss of his- his dearest friend. His eyes were rimmed in red from crying, and the throat of his human vessel was sore, adding weight to the tweedy mask and carefully hidden powers that would’ve probably fooled his own Maker. The bell above the door tinkled sharply, summoning the angel from the back room. He looked as though he’d been prepared to send John away, claim they were closed or some other excuse not to sell a book, but the look on John’s face stopped him. 

“I say, dear boy,” the angel said, his soft, fluttering tones dumping pity all over John. Pity was a sticky sort of emotion and John didn’t care for it at all. “Is there something I can assist you with?” 

“Is- Are you- Are you at all acquainted with a fellow known as Crowley?” John asked, lip twitching under his mustache. “He’s an old friend of mine and I must find him.” 

Aziraphale’s kind expression turned hard at its core. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Now, if you don’t mind-” 

“Please,” John interrupted. His words were a pained whisper and his eyes fell shut for a long moment. “I’m not trying to hurt him. I just need to speak with him.” 

The angel shifted uncomfortably. He really was adorable up close and in person. John could see how Crowley fell for those little wriggles, the pastel tones and halo-cloud hair. “He’s not here. In fact, I haven’t seen him for quite a long time, I’m afraid. But, perhaps, I could be of assistance? It’s only- well, forgive me for being forward but you seem so wretchedly sad.” 

John let out a gasping sort of laugh, more of an outward breath than an expression of humor. He rolled his eyes when they threatened to brim over and he let one of his hands swipe at them. “You could say that. I’ve recently suffered the loss of a loved one. My best friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You might recognize-” 

“Oh, _of course_ ,” Aziraphale breathed, knowledge lighting his eyes. “You must be Doctor Watson. Oh, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor. I’ve read all of your accounts of his adventures. Quite thrilling, really.” Then, he seemed to realize that John was still in mourning. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” 

John pressed his lips together tightly and he nodded. “Yes, thank you. I suppose I should be going.” 

“How are you acquainted with Crowley? I was unaware that he had many friends and certainly none so close as to seek him out during a crisis such as this,” Aziraphale prompted. John’s lip twitched up at one corner. What a nosy angel.

“I may owe him a bit of an apology, actually.” John cleared his throat, feeling a little uneasy. “A few years ago, I made sport of him for protecting something very dear to his heart. Now that I’ve lost my own friend, as he was afraid of losing his, I can understand why he behaved the way that he did.” 

“A few years?” Aziraphale asked, brows knitting together. “As far as I’m aware, it’s been a long time, indeed, since he’s shown his face in London. Decades, even. How-” 

“Centuries. Years. Does any of it really matter?” John asked with a casual shrug of his shoulders. He was still unwilling to drop his human facade, but he didn’t mind leaving the angel with a few clues. A mystery in memory of the one he’d loved, maybe. Let the angel puzzle over how a normal, boring human such as Doctor John Watson could manage to say he’s known Crowley for centuries. “If you see him, do let him know I was here and what I’ve said. I don’t know that I will return to London anytime soon.” 

The angel flushed, but he nodded. “Er, yes. Yes, quite. Have a safe journey, Doctor, and I hope you are able to find the comfort you need.” 

What an odd thing to say, John thought, but he nodded and then left the warm comfort of the book shop, stepping back onto the busy, cold streets of London.

***

If John had been in charge of the way his story unfolded, things would have been different. In a world of if’s and maybe’s, John would have written some great hiatus for Sherlock to have taken. He would have had all of it be a ruse, and Sherlock would come back to him. They would have taken up mysteries once more, just like they always had, and they would have put the obsessive, calculating Professor behind them. Sadly, this was not one of John’s stories for the Strand. This was the real life of the former Morning Star and Sherlock was most definitely dead.

Some nights, if he deigned to sleep, he dreamt of the waterfall in all it’s horrifying glory. He hadn’t witnessed the initial fall, of course. Sherlock had managed to give him the slip and together he and the Professor had toppled into the frigid waters, leaving John to find the message and put together the clues. What John _had_ been present for, just in time, was witnessing from a safe distance as the demon Mephistopheles lurked around the scene of the crime. Mephistopheles only came when there were souls to collect. John had seen them often enough over the years. 

Sherlock was definitely gone. 

He’d been in London too long, he decided. And so, John took to wandering once more, eventually ending up in America. The early 1900s hadn’t been great so far. There was the first World War, and a second one was definitely brewing. As always, humans were boring and predictable and fucking violent. John was so tired of it all.

“Watson! John Watson?” 

No.

John hadn’t even meant to be at this party. 

No, it was impossible.

John froze in horror, turning to watch the tubby man tottle towards him. Had it really been long enough that Stamford was- 

But- But reincarnation wasn’t- That wasn’t true, right? 

Yet here he was, the same moon-faced little man in small spectacles, approaching John at a party he’d never even meant to attend. 

What was happening?

“Heard you were in the army, getting shot at,” Stamford said, almost the same words that he’d spoken in the eighteen-nineties. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t _happening_. They were in America, for fuck’s sake. “What happened?”

“I, ehm, got shot,” John said slowly, shaking Stamford’s hand. His brow furrowed and he decided to jump forward in the script a little, just to see what would happen. “I’m looking for a new place to live but you know New York, can’t find a decent place anywhere.” 

“You could always get a roommate,” Stamford suggested. If John had blood, he’d have felt it drain from his face. 

No.

No, no, no, no, _NO_.

But he needed to know.

“Come on, who’d want to share with me?” John asked, and Stamford gave that same little smile he had in the past before leading John through the crowd of tipsy socialites and bachelors. There, with a glass of champagne in one hand, looking far too debonair for his own good, was Sherlock Holmes.

His Sherlock Holmes.

And just like before, with one blistering monologue Sherlock deduced all the things that John projected onto his human corporation, his supposed identity, leaving John to once more whisper, “Brilliant.” 

Sherlock grinned into his glass. The music was changing and everyone around them seemed to be pairing off for dancing. John watched, feeling faintly sick and a little numb, as this ghost of his past lover drained his glass of alcohol. He placed it on the tray of a passing waiter before snagging two more from the beverage table, an open bottle cradled under his arm. “Come. There’s a charming balcony that no one’s discovered yet. We can discuss the rent and see if we’ll suit.” 

John shrugged, nodded at Stamford, who was looking altogether too pleased at his matchmaking abilities, and then followed the tall, dark detective through the crush. He was right, of course. There was a secluded balcony and they were the only two on it. Perhaps it was the threat of rain looming over the city or perhaps everyone just wanted to have their dancing and their jazz. These rich parties with their free-flowing booze, laws that only applied to the poor in this godforsaken country. Sherlock handed him a glass. 

“Would you rather be in there with the rest of them?” Sherlock asked, looking down at John with that familiar smugness in his eyes. John shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. 

“It’s nice, don’t you think? Dancing? Twirling someone attractive around on the floor, holding them tight,” John said. The breeze from a storm that was brewing in the distance felt cool against his overheated skin. Thunder rumbled. Sherlock’s hair, which John had seen curling wildly against soft pillows in the past, was slicked within an inch of its life and didn’t dare move with the change in air flow. 

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it in a situation like this,” Sherlock said, gesturing towards the party. He took another sip of his own champagne, staring down at John’s face as he did so. Then, seeing something there that he liked, he smirked and placed his glass on a side table. He held out his hand. “Unless you’d like to show me an example, perhaps?” 

John felt his chest tighten, but he smiled impishly. “Why do you get to lead?” 

Sherlock grinned right back at him. “Because I’m taller.” 

Which is how John found himself swept into Sherlock’s arms, held tightly but with proper poise, circling around the balcony. He smiled, despite himself. For one moment, he forgot he wasn’t human.

“You recognize me from somewhere,” Sherlock murmured, his low voice resonating enough that John could feel it in his own chest. “But you know I don’t know you.” 

“Excellent,” John breathed, feeling overwhelmed as Sherlock continued to move them. “And how did you reach that stellar conclusion?” 

“Easy. The recognition was all over your face. You have expressive eyes. Are you really looking for someone to share rooms with?” Sherlock asked, slowing their movements to a gentle sway. For someone who claimed not to be a dancer, he was very, very good at it. 

“Yes,” John lied. Sherlock smirked.

“Then we’ll suit very well indeed, don’t you think?” he asked, just before he leaned in and gave John the sweetest kiss he’d ever experienced. 

“God, yes,” John grinned. 

It wasn’t the same as before, living with Sherlock Holmes. He was simply a chemist, and while sometimes he did assist the police it wasn’t his main focus in this lifetime. There was no Mrs. Hudson this time around, no echoes of detective Lestrade, but there were glittering parties with excellent music and nights together at the opera or the theater. There were speakeasies to visit and violins to be played. Most of the time, though, there were quiet evenings spent together, entwined on their sofa, with their lips making a symphony all their own. 

Until James bloody Moriarty showed his face again. 

Oh, it was like that wretched book. That Gatsby one. Everyone loved Moriarty, everyone wanted to be in his orbit, but Moriarty only had eyes for Sherlock. 

“I don’t think Fitzgerald meant for that book to be a user manual for life,” John complained as they entered the party together. Sherlock’s hand lingered on his shoulder, gripping softly, before releasing.

“I can’t believe you actually read it. It looked quite dreadful,” Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes. 

“Sherlock, shut up. I know you read it when you thought I wasn’t looking. I saw the creases on the corners,” John told him. Sherlock snorted and he was about to say something back when Moriarty interrupted them. Something was different about him tonight. Moriarty was always creepy, but tonight something demonic shone through in his usually human aura. Something that suggested he’d recently sold his soul. It reached through his energy in spikes, sharp and piercing. 

“Boys, boys, welcome!” Moriarty said, his voice oozing with delight at Sherlock’s arrival. He winked up at the taller man, ignoring John completely. “Sherlock, I’ve something simply marvelous to show you upstairs. It’s part of my private collection, I think you’ll find it simply fascinating. Excuse us, Watson, oh I do think Mary was looking for you. Come, come, Sherlock.” 

John hated when Moriarty dismissed him. He hated when Moriarty used Sherlock’s first name. He hated even being in the same room as the man, and was about to object when Sherlock leaned over to murmur in John’s ear, “I’ll be fine. Go flirt with Mary. There’s been some talk about us and we wouldn’t want to lend any truth to the rumors, hmm? I’ll come fetch you in a few moments and we’ll go fuck on his bed before he notices, alright?” 

Well. John wouldn’t say no to that. 

“Fine,” he snapped, turning stiffly and wandering in the direction of the beverages, where a pleasant-looking red-haired woman was waiting for him. He didn’t mind Mary so much, but he wasn’t interested in her and leaving Sherlock alone, unprotected, with a demon-touched Moriarty put him on edge. 

No, no, it was unacceptable. After a short few minutes of conversation, he was excusing himself. Dread was washing over him. He hated it- he’d spent centuries teaching himself not to feel and now all he could do was panic and worry. He hated this! John’s dress shoes made a solid tapping sound as he ran through the upper levels of the mansion, their echoes haunting his every move. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John called, opening door after door, empty room after empty room. 

Finally, at the end of one wing, there was a shout. Turning, John began to run in that direction. A part of him already knew what he’d find.

Sherlock, locked in an embrace with Moriarty. 

Sherlock, on a balcony, with his jacket firmly in Moriarty’s grip.

Sherlock’s eyes, meeting John’s, one last time before they both tipped over the edge. 

And then the echoing screams of all the party guests covering the squished-melon sounds of two skulls cracking on the pavement. 

Mephistopheles grinned from the shadows.

***

John hugged his power close to him as he watched the party-goers get questioned and sent home by bribable policemen. Morticians were called, corpses hauled away. Mephistopheles, and the souls of Moriarty and Holmes, were gone. He felt numb inside, watching the lively mansion turn somber and empty.

Until he noticed a certain presence. An aura of good, an essence of evil, lurking together in the library. Seething, John stormed in that direction, his eyes ablaze with fury. 

“You!” John said, grabbing the snake by the lapels of his ridiculous black jacket, throwing him into a bookshelf. “This was _you_. You did this.” 

“What are you talking about?” Crowley gasped out, having the wind knocked out of him just a touch. John was barely aware of the angel fluttering in the background as he sneered into the face of that stupid snake. 

“Moriarty wasn’t tempted until tonight. He was one of yours, wasn’t he? One of your conquests. Why are you even here, you fucking menace!” He shoved Crowley once more. “What did you promise him? What was it worth, you ophidious freak-” 

“Hang on, what are you on about?” Crowley asked, pushing back. He shrugged his shoulders once he was free, straightening his suit. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I didn’t even know you were going to be here.” 

“Don’t give me that, don’t lie. He had the stench of a demonic temptation. What did you fucking promise him in return for Sherlock Holmes?” John asked, glowering at Crowley. 

Crowley shrugged, tilting his head and frowning. “I wouldn’t. Not my style, really. I’m more into subtle mayhem lately. Look, Aziraphale had a blessing to do and I tagged along. Didn’t even know you were going to be here.” 

Frustrated, John threw a punch but Crowley had a miraculous dodge that John suspected had an angelic aftertaste to it. He growled. “I don’t believe you. You’re just a snake. Crawl on your belly and keep your temptations from touching those-” He paused, halting in his tracks before he could utter _those words_ in front of the snake. “Those I deem important.” 

Understanding etched itself onto Crowley’s features, apparent even with his eyes hidden behind his signature tinted glasses. His thin lips twisted into a satisfied smirk. “Oh. How cute. You’ve _fallen_ in _love_.” 

John’s eyes flicked to the concerned angel whose hands flitted about like nervous butterflies. “Do you really want to play that game, brother? Stay away from mine or I’ll rip every feather off of yours, one by one.” 

Crowley shot a panicked glance at Aziraphale, raising an eyebrow in some unspoken sentence. How could two beings on two separate sides of a fight move in such perfect harmony? The angel just pursed his lips in a reassuring sort of way and gave a minuscule shake of his head, one brow twitching down. Comforted by whatever was communicated, Crowley’s face snapped back in John’s direction. “Do your worst. I dare you.” 

“Brave words,” John said in a low tone.

“I don’t find you very threatening,” Crowley replied.

***

John doesn’t know how to plan. New York was a disaster that left him feeling hollow and drained. He started to wonder if he’d been on this planet too fucking long. He was a star, after all. Maybe he should have just hung himself in the sky and been done with it. Then, there was the question of what to do next. Would Sherlock appear again, like a comet passing him by? After thirty or so odd years, would he reappear and offer John the chance to breathe again? Because, without him, John wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t living. Had he been living before?

Heavy questions, indeed.

And then, what if he did reappear? Both times they’d had less than a decade together. Five or six years of bliss before the fatal tumble that always took his heart with it. Was it worth it?

“Watson! John Watson!” 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” John groaned, knowing that voice and who it belonged to. He’d tried to hide, really, he had. A remote cabin in the Canadian countryside. While the world was gripped with the swingin’ sixties, John was determined to seal himself off from all of it. Maybe then, he’d thought, he’d be safe.

He’d been wrong.

He heard the footsteps of Mike Stamford approaching behind him. Of all the places, to find Mike in this tiny convenience store in the middle of god-forsaken nowhere. It made John press his lips together and let out an annoyed huff through his nostrils. He had a split second to decide if he wanted to do this all over again. Did he really want to pass up an opportunity to see Sherlock? What if he didn’t give into this stupid temptation again? Would skipping this be Heaven or Hell?

He couldn’t possibly skip Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please consider reading some of my other works.
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If by "editing" you mean "doubling the word count" of what was meant to be a quick drabble...

This time when Sherlock died, two things happened. First, John didn’t cry. The rage simmering in him was similar to that of when he Fell. He wanted to smite something, to rage against God, but he just kept it inside; a burning, grief-riddled anger searing itself onto his heart.

The second was that the snake found him instead of the other way ‘round. 

It was probably easier that way, what with John being blind-drunk and all. Would’ve been hard to find the snake himself. Not to mention the angel was probably tucked somewhere far away, somewhere safe from John, with the snake coming to him instead. No accidental discorporations of innocent angel bystanders this time. Not that it had happened yet, but John was feeling frisky and unpredictable. 

“What d’you want?” John asked, his words beginning to slur around the edges. He signaled the bartender for another shot. Sharp eyebrows raised over black glasses, reflecting pitiful images of John in the center. “Come to gloat?” 

“No. Not at all,” Crowley said, perching on the stool next to him. “I always drown my sorrows in backwoods Canadian dive bars. Pure coincidence. What’s happened?” 

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be this pissed, would I? We were happy. Moriarty came. Off the cliff they went,” John slurred, mimicking the fall with two empty shot glasses. They rattled together as they hit the wood and he received a disapproving look from the bartender. The fresh shot was still put down in front of him. His numb, slow fingers wrapped around the sticky glass and he slammed the drink back, making a loud crack against the bar as he sat it back down with too much force. 

“It’s the same bloke as before?” Crowley prompted, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yeah. ‘S been the same since the old times. You know, Queen Victoria. Your little nap,” John said. 

“Do you know why?” 

“Some demon trick? Some laugh from Her at my exs- ecst- expense?” John hiccupped. His red eyes started to look at Crowley but he couldn’t stand to see himself reflected there. He looked away. “I can’t do this again.” 

Crowley angled himself closer to the bar, letting his lean arms rest against the sticky wood. He signaled the bartender. “What choice do you have? What will kill you?” 

John snorted and shook his head. “Why? You lookin’ for ideas? I don’t know. I’m d’ffrent than you. I didn’t Fall so far.” 

“What do you mean, you didn’t Fall? We all Fell,” Crowley said. John shrugged. 

“Dunno. But I’m not an angel, I don’t have any wings. I’m definitely not a demon because I still have my Light.” John shook his head again before leaning it forward to rest on the bar. “Wanna see? Want me to show you? I dunno what I am anymore.” 

Crowley’s mouth was set in a stunned expression. He ordered two drinks from the bartender, who’d finally moseyed back towards them, and then just sat back and gazed at John. “You still have your Light?” 

“Mmm,” John groaned affirmatively, voice echoing off the bar. He was so drunk that he let just a bit of it shine through, a holy glow lighting his eyes when he finally looked back up at Crowley. “See? What is this?” 

“Put that away, no one needs to see that,” Crowley said. He took the drink the bartender left for him and took a large swig, feeling the whiskey burn in his throat. “It’s probably a part of our punishment. You know, you, in love with a human who keeps dying. Me, with an angel, can’t even be friends because of the rules or sommat. Nothing to worry about, just an everyday punishment. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He held out his drink to toast John. John knocked his glass into Crowley’s before drinking the entire thing down. Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Cheers.” 

“Yeah,” John groaned miserably. “Cheers.”

***

He should’ve been expecting it. He hadn’t forgotten, exactly, more like he didn’t always notice the human passage of time. He’d followed Dickface McSnake back to England and just sort of drifted along feeling sorry for himself until-

“Watson! John Watson!” 

Mother _fucker_. 

It was too eerily similar to the first meeting. Mike, in the park, beaming up at him. This time he offered to buy John a cup of coffee and they chatted. John was probably stalling, to be honest. Wondering how long he could put off the inevitable meeting. Ah, but there was his cue, in the script, just as it always was.

“You could get a flatshare,” Mike said helpfully. Like a skilled actor, John repeated the next line, waiting for Mike to prompt, “You’re the second person that’s said that to me today.” 

It was the first meeting all over again. It was the same hospital, although it had changed in many ways, and it was the same man waiting for him in the lab. 

“Bit different from back in my day,” John said, and he meant it. Then, Sherlock opened his mouth and it all began again. John’s heart felt like it was breaking. 

“Two-two-one B Baker Street. And the name is Sherlock Holmes.” 

Of course it fucking was.

***

“I can’t do this again,” John groaned, pressing his hands into his eyeballs. Yes, he’d seen the closed sign on the book shop, and no, he didn’t care. He let himself in anyway and was now complaining in the back room to two supernatural entities that really didn’t appreciate his appearance during their date night. Or whatever this not-date-but-still-drinking was.

“Look, I appreciate you tracking me down to whinge about your lover’s current incarnation, but I can’t help you. Currently trying to stop an apocalypse, ta,” Crowley said, his tone beyond annoyed. He was sprawled on the sofa, one snakeskin boot propped up on the cushioned bench, the other touching the floor, with a glass of liquor in his hand. His hair was long again and pulled back, away from his face. 

“You are not. You’re currently drunk in a musty old book shop,” John said, putting his hands on his hips to glare down at his ‘little brother’. 

“I beg your pardon! My shop is not at all musty!” Aziraphale objected. He had the good sense to hand John a glass of wine before settling in his own usual chair. 

“Oh, oh no!” Crowley started, standing up. “He’s not staying here, angel. He’s not invited!” 

“My dear, please remember this is my store and I choose who gets invited.” Aziraphale took a delicate sip of his own drink, watching a smug smile appear across Crowley’s face. “Doctor Watson is clearly in need of our assistance. It might be a refreshing change from all the worry over the whole Armageddon thing.” 

“Alright. Invite anyone you like, angel, you’re right,” Crowley allowed. He gestured towards John. “Why him?” 

The angel didn’t like that question. Crowley’s expression was far too smug for his own good. After a certain number of centuries with someone, you learned to know when they were up to some kind of mischief and Aziraphale was certain Crowley was just waiting to yank the rug out from under him. 

“Crowley,” John warned in a low tone. It only caused Crowley’s delighted grin to widen. 

“Nah, you came to us. A fun game, this is. Angel, why do you want him here? Sick of only me for company, eh?” 

“Oh, don’t be stupid, Crowley.” Aziraphale pursed his plush little lips and studied John in a way that reminded him of that cartoon bear that was obsessed with honey. “He’s come here before and I seem to recall he was ever so sad about something. Oh! His friend.” 

“ _What?_ ” Crowley asked, whipping his head back to John. “When did you come here?” 

John flushed. He knew that he could probably kill Crowley with a single glance if he really, honestly tried, but something in the demon’s tone of voice- it wasn’t that John was nervous or anything but Crowley had never seemed so _badass_ before the whole impending doom thing. He hated to think of what Crowley would do to protect the angel. Probably similar things to what he’d do to save Sherlock. If only he knew how. “The first time, you were sleeping. I wanted to know what your angel was like. I was upset.” 

“Ssssso you came here?” 

“Continuing to say it isn’t going to make it less true,” John said smartly, taking a drink of his own. Crowley mouthed John’s words back at him sarcastically before deciding to continue his game. 

“Alright. Angel?”

“He seemed so awfully sad, my dear. And he wrote those lovely detective stories,” Aziraphale continued. The angel brightened for a moment. “Oh! I still have a few. I should have you sign them.” 

John frowned. “I don’t think-” 

Crowley interrupted whatever John was about to say, turning back to John with his eyebrows raised expectantly. “Does he know who you are?”

“I could ask you the same question,” John shrugged, lips turning down. Crowley sputtered at that, and then he turned away from both of them. John tried again, not wanting to beg but certainly willing to if that helped his cause. “You could help me. If he falls again, if you were there-” 

“I don’t- I can’t _do_ that anymore. We’re not the angels we used to be, are we, _John_ ,” Crowley reminded him, still looking away. John nodded to himself, breathing out. He should’ve let it drop but then the angel spoke, his soft voice cutting through the awkward silence. 

“Excuse me, but I feel as though I’m missing something. Would anyone care to elaborate? Crowley? Fill me in, so to speak?” the angel asked. Well, at least it got Crowley looking in their direction again. He shook his head at John, just slightly. It was a warning gesture.

“We were brothers once,” John whispered, his voice soft and hoarse. “Don’t you miss it? I could show you, if you want. Do you even remember what you looked like in the Light, Ra-” 

Crowley struck with lightning speed and snake-bite precision. His fingers twisted into the wool of John’s jumper, lifting the shorter man slightly. Venom-laced spittle hit John’s cheek when the man spoke. “Shut up! That name is a curse! That angel is _dead_!” 

John’s hands rested on Crowley’s forearms, a glow starting to pour around them, seeping off of John’s body. The unassuming middle-aged countenance didn’t change much, not really, that wasn’t the point of John’s beauty. It was the light. The impossibly entrancing, addictive, sunny light that burst forth, leeching over Crowley as it brightened the whole room. John let his tongue dab his lips, wetting them before he spoke. “Is he?” 

“Angel,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, eyes never leaving John’s calm face. “Can I please toss the fucking Morningstar out on his royal arse?” 

“Oh, I _say_ ,” Aziraphale breathed, feeling the Divine nature of the glow. He stood, drawn forward like a little feathery moth to a flame. “But- but how? How is this possible? He Fell with the rest of the demons, he shouldn’t be able to-”

“And yet, here he is,” John said, giving Crowley a nudge with his energy, sending the snake tripping backwards. John’s feet hit the floor at an awkward angle and he stumbled, too. “It’s a long, long story that you don’t have time for tonight.” John let his essence shine through his human disguise for the first time in centuries. It rolled and glowed and sparkled. Aziraphale’s face was in awe. 

“I’d always heard it was quite something to behold,” the angel said slowly, unable to stop staring at John. John’s eyes flitted to the demon, and he knew that if Crowley weren’t wearing glasses his eyes would show a hint of jealousy. “How do you possibly hide all of that, all of the time?” 

With a wink, John shut it all off and turned back into plain little Doctor Watson, shrugging his shoulders. “Few centuries of practice.” He glanced again at Crowley, pursing his lips. “I guess we all get good at hiding things.” 

“Shut it.” The demon sought out the wine bottle, swiping it from Aziraphale’s desk and taking a swig directly from the bottle with no glass. Aziraphale huffed, annoyed.

“My dear, must you?” he asked with distaste.

“Yes, Raphael, _must you_?” John mimicked meanly, blinking a few rapid times, lips quirked up. Crowley choked on his wine, getting it all down the front of himself. John snickered. “Good thing you wear all black, isn’t it?” 

“Raph-Raphael?” Aziraphale breathed, nervous eyes darting between Crowley and John. His lips were parted, mouth hanging open in shock. “That’s quite impossible. Raphael, well, he died. During the War, he was killed. The other archangels-” 

John smirked. “And archangels never lie, do they?” 

“No. They don’t. And I would know. I- It’s impossible, quite impossible. And blasphemous!” Aziraphale insisted. His eyes stared hard at Crowley, seeming to want to carry on another one of those private conversations John had witnessed before that didn’t involve words but rather small facial expressions only the other one could understand. Crowley wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You would have _told_ me, surely. After all this time.” 

“I told you, just a few minutes ago. That angel is dead.” Crowley whirled on John, gesturing wildly with the wine bottle, wiping leftover drops from his mouth. “You utter that name one more time-” 

The angel started to nod along, but then paused, realizing what Crowley was admitting to. He quirked a curious brow in Crowley’s direction. “Really? Were you?” 

“Conversation for another time, angel,” Crowley snapped, turning his back on both of them. “Y’know, when the world isn’t ending. Get out, Watson. We’ve got bigger problems than missing archangels and zombie detectives.” 

Aziraphale shrugged helplessly at John, not wanting to upset Crowley but at the same time unwilling to, out of some long-lost respect, throw the actual _Morning Star_ out on his rear end. John nodded, knowing it was time to leave. 

“Yeah. S’pose you do,” he said, pressing his eyes closed, tight, for a moment before nodding to himself. “Take care of yourself, Crowley. The angel, too. See you at the end of the world.” 

It was drizzling, a misty rain dropping down from the black night sky. Shadows lingered on the streets, and he lurked in them, walking home through the disgusting weather, mulling over how to make this time different from all the others. He’d been living with Sherlock for a while now. They’d already had one run-in with the seemingly human Moriarty, but John knew how the story was going to end, if he didn’t change something. He considered pulling a temptation or two, picking up a girl in a bar somewhere, to keep up his human facade. He knew Mycroft’s cameras were always trying to catch him, swirling around with every step he took. Maybe if he thought John was out getting off with someone he’d leave him alone.

It felt like cheating.

No, he trudged through the damp and the dark, ending up right back at Baker Street. Their home the first time and what would probably be the last time. Frustrated, he climbed the stairs, about to pass the sitting room entirely, when- 

“John?” 

Bless it.

“Yes, Sherlock?” He stood in the door, looking at his flatmate. 

Odd.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, rather than in his chair where John had left him, with his thick coat on. A sheen of wet glistened in the low light, implying that he’d been out. His pale fingers were steepled in front of him as they’d been so many times before. 

“I followed you.” 

Several thoughts ran through John’s mind. First, who was this and where was his Sherlock? The man never admitted to stalking John, even though he did it on a regular basis. Second, shit, what had he _seen_? Third… what was John supposed to do about it? About any of it, really?

He swallowed, hard, and shifted uncomfortably, noting the shift of his thick, wet jeans against his legs, and the chill that had seeped into human-shaped fingers. His nostrils flared. “And?” 

Sherlock’s pale eyes, which had been focused in front of him, staring at nothing in particular, finally met his. They were scared, but somehow also steady. “I have questions.” 

In the span of a single heartbeat, John knew what he had to do. Alright, maybe not had to. He knew what he _wanted_ to do. Maybe if Sherlock knew his fate, knew what was coming- well, it was the last time, if the Apocalypse lingered on the horizon, and John was willing to try whatever was necessary to keep Sherlock safe. He sat down in front of the man, right on the coffee table, letting their knees knock close together. “I might have answers.” 

The detective nodded. His damp hair was curling and falling over his brow, his skin paler from the chill of being out on a rainy night. Humans were so disgustingly fragile sometimes, yet so impossibly beautiful. “Then let’s begin.” 

It was a challenge, to say the least, to prove to a man of science, a man such as Sherlock Holmes, that John really was the Morning Star of Biblical lore and that the men he’d been visiting that dark night were really an angel and a demon. It was also quite a challenge to get him to believe that they’d known each other several times before, especially when John himself had trouble believing it. 

“Reincarnation isn’t real. I don’t know if this is some demonic curse or something- I just don’t know. I don’t know why.” John’s blue eyes pleaded, his brows tipped upwards in a hopeful, desperate expression. 

“Perhaps…” Sherlock trailed off, but then he put his hand on John’s knee, as he had that first night back in the eighteen-nineties, but without any memory of it. “Perhaps I’m merely finding my way back to you. As I always have.” 

John swallowed, hard, trying to keep his hope in check. He wished that were it, that somehow, no matter what, they’d always find each other. He covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. 

It was hard to talk about James Moriarty when your lover’s lips were covering yours in hot, needy kisses. A hundred or so odd years of want fueling the lust that burned between you. It was impossible to focus when his large hands were sliding over your corporation’s hardened Effort. It just didn’t seem appropriate to bring up a psychotic criminal mastermind when the two of you lay in Sherlock’s bed, breathing heavily, covered in glistening sweat and other bodily fluids. As you’d often scolded him, _‘timing, Sherlock’_ was always important. His low voice rumbled in your ear, asking to see the light once more that he’d only glimpsed from the quiet, dark streets through the book shop’s windows, and you were suddenly flooding his room with Divine energy while he sucked you off-

It was easy to get carried away.

“Sherlock!” 

Mephistopheles was grinning at him. They stood together on the pavement, staring up at Sherlock, one in horror and one in expectation. He tried not to focus on the demon, but he couldn’t help himself. How often had this scene taken place before? Three other times, three other deaths. Please, don’t let there be a fourth. Moriarty was already gone- Moriarty couldn’t hurt them anymore. John could see the outline of his soul, lingering there with the demon. 

“Sherlock-” 

“It was just a trick, John. It was all just a trick.” 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! What was the bloody point in telling him, what was the fucking meaning in having him believe John’s impossible story, if all lead to the same blessed place?

“Sherlock!” 

But the phone was tossed, and the man was sailing too fast through thin air. John couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“Get out,” John growled. The demon had come to him this time, probably another attempt at keeping the angel safe. He’d slithered into Baker Street after the funeral, manic as ever. 

“Look, we could really use your help with this whole apocalypse thing,” Crowley said, pacing through the sitting room, snakeskin boots stomping back and forth. “It would be helpful to have the actual King of Hell on our side instead of this imposter, don’t you think? You could do something useful for once in your miserable life.” 

“Get out!” John shouted, throwing his favorite mug so it shattered against the smiley face on the wall. “I’m not the king of bloody Hell, I’m just- I’m just a useless star. My part in the Plan was over the minute we Fell and I’m through with all of it. Both sides are fucking stupid.” John’s voice shattered and he had to close his eyes and breathe to get himself under control. Too many years at playing human had left him with so many quirks. When he opened them again, the snake had stilled, watching John carefully as though he expected him to combust. “I needed your help and you said no. How dare you come here after he’s- After-” 

John gritted his teeth together, swallowing hard. “No. Get out. I don’t want to talk anymore.” 

“If we save the world, maybe he’ll come back,” Crowley suggested carefully, giving a casual shrug. John shook his head. 

“I don’t care anymore. I can’t keep doing this,” he said, sitting down in his chair, putting his head in his hands. “Get out, demon, there’s nothing for you here.” 

He didn’t look up, but he heard Crowley leave, and John was once more alone. 

Just as it should be.

***

It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t understand exactly, intimately, how John felt. He absolutely did. It’s just that there were more pressing matters to attend to. Without the continuation of Earth, asit was, there would be no more book stores, no more rock and roll, no more composers or restaurants or reincarnated detectives. It was in everyone’s (Crowley’s) best interest that the world keep rolling on exactly as it was.

As it ever was.

Crowley could imagine all too well the pain that John was going through. It was his worst fear and he hoped he never had to suffer through it.

But then he did. The flames from the book shop licked at his suit as he rushed inside, screaming himself hoarse. Aziraphale was gone and there was, seemingly, no bringing the angel back. He indulged in a few too many drinks, cried a little, and got himself hauled off by said angel to Tadfield in a last-ditch effort to stop the world from ending. Which was probably good because Crowley was pretty sure he wasn’t going to last long in a full blown war. 

“Mr. Demon!” the kid, whatsit- the Antichrist, called. Crowley turned, watching Adam and Them start to run from Adam’s new-real father, when the child had faced back and called out for the demon. The kid was smiling at him, the cheek, and he really was a cute little monster. Crowley’s lips twitched. He should be happier, all things considered. Aziraphale was back and the world wasn’t over and all they had left to do was figure out how to evade retaliation from their old bosses, but something sad still lingered inside of him. “Mr. Demon,don’t worry. I fixed it! He’ll be okay!” 

And with that, the Them darted off running, disappearing like the little terrors that they were.

“What did he mean by that, do you think?” Aziraphale asked, breathless. Crowley’s lips twitched, similar to his brother’s but in a bit of a different way. 

“Oh, I dunno. Could be anything, really,” Crowley said.

***

Baker Street was dark, cold and dusty. He hadn’t been back since the argument with Crowley, but with the end of the world, John thought, perhaps, he might check in on Mrs. Hudson. She really was a remarkably resilient old woman but even so, humans were also fragile, especially towards the end of their lives.

He’d felt the powers shifting. He’d felt the blip as the Antichrist reset things. The horrid news stories on the telly faded into the ether and it was just another fucking day in this miserable world. You didn’t get to be several whats-its-because-time-means-nothing old without being able to _feel_ when some power shifted. Maybe without Sherlock he should go back to Hell. Kick that old bastard off the throne and figure out what this reincarnation business was. 

Or maybe he’d just stay here another thirty or so odd years and try again.

His heavy boots thudded against the stairs, too loud, and the door creaked something awful as he pushed it open to reveal their sitting room. It was chilly and there was a draft. Mrs. Hudson had clearly not been up here in a long time. 

John’s fingers drifted over Sherlock’s papers on the desk, just as he’d left them. Nothing had been tidied after he passed. He touched the violin, smoothing over the slick wood, letting himself feel the vibrations of the much-loved object. Everything was here, except the most important thing of all, and that was Sherlock himself.

He sat down heavily in his chair, burying his head in his hands so he didn’t have to see the empty space in front of him. When he’d moved out, he’d only taken the bare necessities, haunted by the memories of Sherlock. Now, it was cold and strange, being in this place without him. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Could ex-archangels still have panic attacks?

The door downstairs opened and closed. Mycroft or Lestrade or Crowley- someone who knew he was here and wanted to make sure he was okay, no doubt. Someone to pretend he was human for, pretend that he was healing and moving on. 

“John.” 

The doctor looked up from his chair, where he’d sat himself for just a second, lips parting in surprise.

“Sherlock-” 

The detective’s lips twisted into a warm, knowing smile. He held out a hand. “We’re home, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please consider reading some of my other works.
> 
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